The Ruby Celeste Series - Box Set, books 1 - 3: Ghost Armada, Dire Kraken, and Church of Ife

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  The evening’s meal was one of the more interesting Francis had had, thanks to the afternoon’s restocking. Instead of puceal, they were each given three slices of dark brown meat from an animal called an oskask. (Francis asked Ruby what it looked like; apparently it was two metres tall, was bulbous and flabby, and stood on a single leg, moving only to spring at passing prey. If the answer had come from Mikhail or the others, Francis wouldn’t have believed them. Even so, he was sceptical, but Ruby promised she’d show him a picture at earliest opportunity.)

  Alongside was an array of roasted vegetables, plus a small ball of sage and onion stuffing and a dumpling. Even the gravy was thick and rich instead of its normally watery constitution.

  “Don’t get used to it,” Ruby warned as she sat down with Francis and Trove. “This is a treat from me to apologise for breaking most of the crew.”

  “If this is the kind of treat we get for breaks, my mind runs wild at what we might get if one of us dies,” Mikhail said from the next table over. “Maybe we could lose Reuben or Glim on our next outing, just to find out.”

  “You motherf—”

  “There will be no treats for the crew if either of them dies,” Ruby said matter-of-factly. “They’re simply not worth it.”

  Raucous laughter erupted. Ruby merely cut into her oskask meat with her usual collected demeanour, the quirk of an eyebrow and the corner of her lip the only indication she’d just made a joke.

  Oskask had a very rich but pleasant flavour, and came apart easily under the press of Francis’s knife. He was sorry this was only a treat.

  “Well, come on then, Trove,” Ruby said when she’d finished.

  “Where are you off to?” Francis asked.

  “Checking automated processes are lined up for tonight,” Ruby said. “While we’re put down the ship is running with a skeleton crew; regular check-ins from the technicians, but they’ve all got time off.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Indeed. Do you want us to take your tray?”

  “Oh! Um, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not a problem. Trove, the man’s tray.” When Trove moved to pick it up, Ruby slapped him away. “I was kidding! Really, you must pay attention. It’s all in the intonation.” She grinned at Francis and stacked his tray onto hers, then led the way through the cafeteria with Trove at her side. “And besides, how did you expect to carry it with your broken arm?”

  “Atop the other one. Or perhaps by juggling.”

  “You would make a dismal juggler, Trove. Now come on, we’ve got …” Their voices trailed off as they passed around the door and drifted up the corridor.

  By himself, Francis listened to the workhands’ conversation. Apparently Peters had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to chat up a woman in a pub, only to discover that she was already taken.

  “By another woman,” he finished.

  “Ah. So you turned her lesbian,” Mikhail said.

  “No,” Glim answered. “Anyhow, I still wasn’t sure it was a lost cause. I mean, I could have joined—what?” he asked the sudden snorting laughter. “I could have!”

  “Maybe,” said Reuben. “If you had a different face.”

  Mikhail: “And body.”

  “And voice,” Reuben added, counting off fingers. “Oh, and don’t forget money.”

  “Come to think of it, do you have any redeeming features at all?”

  “You guys are tossers,” Peters said glumly.

  “Um.”

  Francis glanced up at the last voice. His chest froze.

  Brie. She stood opposite, her thin cheeks aflame, clutching—a bouquet of flowers?!

  The workhands’ chattering ceased. Evans made a gleeful noise, but Peters smacked him in the arm to silence him, watching with an unchecked grin of his own. The whole table had turned. Whole room, in fact, Francis was sure, even if he didn’t dare look around.

  “Err … hi,” he said slowly. Blood pounded in his temple. He kept his gaze on Brie’s face. The alternative was the flowers—and he didn’t want to address those. Not yet.

  “Hi.”

  The other morning replayed in his mind; the way he’d ignored her until she was forced away. Vala’s words afterward: simple, yet cutting in their truth.

  Guilt made him force out, “How are you?”

  “I’m good.” After a pause that was almost too long, Brie asked, “You?”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “I—I, err, I got you these.” Brie extended the flowers in a jerky movement. So quick was the snap that a solitary white petal fluttered down. Her eyes followed it for a second, and her mouth twitched nervously. The bloom in her cheeks darkened. Heightened by her white blonde hair, she looked almost beetroot. “These flowers,” she finished.

  No choice anymore: now Francis had to look at them.

  Purple paper wrapped the spray, tied with string. Green, ferny things stuck out at the edges, clutching red posies, white daisies, and a lone pink rosebud that was just opening.

  “You spend a lot of time with Vala,” Brie said. “In her greenhouse. I thought …”

  The room was quieter now, Francis was sure. And here, at the centre of its collective gaze: on one side of the table, Francis Paige; on the other, waiflike Brie Channing, an offering extended that he still hadn’t taken.

  Take it. You have to.

  He hesitated, but reached out and took the flowers. “Thank you,” he said, fighting the burn in his ears. He made a show of looking them over. “They’re, um, very nice.”

  Brie was quiet. She looked terrified. Afraid to move.

  “Do you want to eat with me?” Francis forced, cringing to hear it. “I mean, I’ve already finished, but …”

  “Yeah!” Brie nodded quickly. “Okay.” She was still a moment longer. “Okay.” And then she was off toward the serving station, straight blonde hair flapping behind her.

  “Ooh,” Evans muttered. He leaned over and winked at Francis. “Dinner date. Shouldn’t you have brought the flowers, though?”

  “Shut up,” Francis mumbled through gritted teeth. “I feel bad for ignoring her the other morning.”

  “I can think of another way you could make it up to her. And this time she wouldn’t have to break your lock to get into bed with you.”

  “Shut up.” Francis rubbed his forehead with his free hand. The other still clutched the flowers. God, what was he supposed to do with these?

  Brie was back a few moments later, setting down her tray with a clatter. With a look to Evans and the other workhands, then a nervous grin to Francis, she began eating.

  And watching. All the time watching.

  Why did she have to be so awkward?

  “So, uh, you’re not working for the next few days,” Francis said. “While we’re here.”

  Brie half-choked, half-swallowed and said, “No! Well, a little. I have to check in now and again. But no night shifts.” She smiled. “Be nice to see some daylight for a change.”

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

  “Maybe we could do something?” she said. “In New Harlem. You know, while we’re here.”

  No. That was what Francis wanted to say. Almost did, in fact. But he felt another guilty echo and instead found himself saying, “Yeah. Okay. That’ll be … cool.”

  Brie looked as though she couldn’t believe her luck.

  Neither could Francis, albeit for entirely different reasons.

  4

  Sunlight streamed through Francis’s porthole.

  He groggily checked the communicator he’d dropped onto his small bedside table. It was eight a.m., which meant he risked being late for breakfast. Cursing, he hurried to his feet, patted his bedcovers into some semblance of order, and changed from pyjamas into the day’s clothes as quickly as he could. He raked a comb through his hair, pinched the corners of his eyes to catch any lingering sleep dust, and then unlocked the door and stepped out—

  “Hi, Francis,” Brie said.

  She had been lea
ning against the opposite wall, but now bounded forward.

  Well. This was … unexpected.

  “Hi,” Francis said slowly. Carefully, he pulled his door closed and locked it. “I, err …”

  “You weren’t in the cafeteria. I thought I’d wait for you.”

  Francis almost said, Literally waiting. Like a stalker. Instead he said, “Okay. Well, um, thanks. For that.”

  “Samuel made omelettes this morning.”

  “Okay.”

  Awkwardly aware of the young woman’s presence, Francis headed down the corridor. Brie bounced after to keep up. In spite of her energy, her arms were just a little too stiff at her sides.

  “Oh!” Brie cried. “How is—are—your ribs?”

  “They’re fine,” said Francis. He massaged them distractedly.

  They really were. Vile though Vala’s medicine had been, it had done the trick. He still had the odd twinge, and he felt a lot creakier than before, but given he’d had four ribs broken little more than a week and a half ago, he was in remarkably good condition.

  “Good. And—and the flowers? Do you like them?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What did …”

  “They’re on my bedside table.” And odd-looking they were there, too; Francis didn’t think he’d ever been given flowers in his life. “Vala gave me a vase.”

  “Good. Cool.” A pause. “Good.”

  Francis wondered how everyone would look as he and Brie walked into the cafeteria—together. Yesterday, when she’d given him the flowers, his positioning meant he’d only had to see the workhands. Today, though, he’d have a perfect vantage point to see everybody.

  Luckily, very few faces looked up. Reuben’s turned, and a coy smile spread across his lips as he nudged Peters and Herschel. Both pivoted for a glance, along with Mikhail, before resuming their conversation.

  “Where do you want to sit?” Brie asked breathily.

  “Um … usual table is fine.”

  “Okay. I’ll go …” She gestured to it.

  “Aren’t you eating?” Francis asked.

  Brie grinned sheepishly. “I already did while I was waiting for you.”

  “You could get seconds.”

  “Could I?” Brie’s grin dissolved into a nervous look. She eyed Sam warily, then fixed wide eyes onto Francis. “Sam scares me,” she whispered.

  “He’s fine. Really.”

  She thought about it, but shook her head. “I’ll just be …” She pointed again to the table. Francis nodded, and she hurried off.

  The serving station was almost empty. Francis was lucky to have gotten up when he had, or he might have missed it all.

  Samuel was busy clattering about with bowls. Francis cleared his throat to get the chef’s attention.

  Nothing.

  Francis coughed, louder.

  Sam turned. He lumbered to the station and grunted, pointing an accusatory finger.

  “Sorry,” Francis said. “I overslept.”

  Samuel shook his head. He waved for Francis to extend his tray; Francis did so, then headed to his table—and Brie—one omelette and a slice of toast better off.

  “Hi,” she said when he sat.

  “Hi.”

  “It has vegetables in,” Brie said. “The omelette.”

  So it did. Not that Francis needed it pointed out for him. Those red chunks of pepper, and the blackish specks he assumed to be mushrooms—well, hoped, at any rate—were quite obvious.

  Nonetheless, he said, “Nice,” and began to eat.

  Francis wasn’t quite sure how to take the meal. If he protracted it, that meant he wouldn’t need to talk to Brie for long, as she didn’t seem to want to fill the quiet while he chewed. But that also meant she spent longer watching him. Talk about a no-win situation.

  When he’d finished and put down his knife and fork, Brie chirped, “Nice?” Her eyes were intent upon him. Almost as if Francis’s answer was of cataclysmic importance, not simply whether Sam’s meal had been satisfying.

  “Yeah, good,” Francis said.

  “Not a lot of people like his cooking,” Brie whispered. Her eyes darted to the serving station as if terrified the man might have heard.

  “It’s all right. Fills a hole; that’s the main thing.”

  “Haha! Yeah.” Brie flopped forward onto her elbows. “So. Um. What—what are we doing today?”

  Francis balked. If he had still been eating, he might have spat. She wanted a day with him?

  “Don’t you have to check in on the ship’s processes?” he asked.

  “No. Wren said she’d cover for me.”

  Of course she did.

  Francis thought quickly. He’d wanted to begin asking around New Harlem today, to see if anyone might be able to provide some information that could lead him to a way home. And that meant spending his time with Natasha or Ruby, not this relentless bundle of anxiety. Brie would have nothing to contribute.

  And yet, her face was so hopeful.

  At the thought of turning her down, and seeing her face fall, that guilty feeling gripped his stomach again. It was nearly crippling.

  His thoughts flew. He didn’t want to … but maybe today and she’d have her fill. Besides, the Harbinger was going to be here for a while yet. One day lost wouldn’t hinder too much, would it?

  So, hating the sound his words made, Francis said in the brightest tone he could muster, “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

  5

  With the Harbinger more or less to herself, Ruby was sat in the control room. The workstation in front of her was open to a ship schematic, information scrolling. But it was forgotten: Ruby gazed straight through the console, index finger and thumb pulling at her bottom lip.

  The Harbinger was back to optimal capacity. Hadn’t been far from it, in truth, but there had been a last few kinks to work out. Hired help had taken care of that quickly. And the drone was finished, kitted out with a new pair of eyes.

  They didn’t need to be here anymore. They could leave.

  Which begged the question she’d posed to her closest crewmates: what to do next.

  Ruby removed her tricorne and dropped it into her lap. Hands smoothed her tangle of curls, then fingered the crushed velvet hat. Her forehead creased.

  The facts:

  The Exceptional Luck had dropped a beacon. There was no sign of the forest it had (presumably) died in, nor its beacon, though the Harbinger had travelled to the correct location. Instead they’d found a strange cloud masking a structure Tesla had described as looking ‘artificial’.

  Something had scanned the Harbinger with radar. Then a storm had exploded around them and they’d been set upon by a kraken.

  The kraken had been struck by lightning. It had fallen from the sky, blackened and flaming. It was out of the picture.

  What was it guarding? Was the Exceptional Luck still there somewhere?

  Ruby wanted to go back. Yet when she’d brought up their return, the silence had been deafening. And no wonder; the kraken’s attack had been devastating, not to mention everything else that had already happened this year. Of course the crew wouldn’t be keen to return.

  They had the drone now, though. Its cameras. It had been tested; there would be no further power spikes. It could be deployed to scout the area, and check it was safe before they flew into danger.

  Ruby replaced the tricorne on her head. Eyes alighting on the console in front of her, she glanced at the scrolling data, then cycled out of the schematic and to the newest option in the ship’s menus: drone control. She opened and primed it. Its systems kicked into life, and after ten seconds of tedious software checks—it really was a dim thing—its cameras whirred into life and filled the display.

  A panorama of New Harlem. The detail wasn’t quite as good as what she could pull from the Harbinger’s eyes, but it was still impressive. And with the drone’s moving fidelity and speed …

  Ruby switched the drone off.

  She pulled back the ra
dar overlays from before the kraken attacked. The data was incomplete; like the stills of the beast they’d been able to salvage, some information was lost from the partial system blackout. But still, it was unequivocal. Something was in that mass of cloud—something smooth in places, angular and jutting in others. Not a forest, no—but perhaps something more interesting.

  Ruby studied the screen. The frown line across her forehead deepened. Again, a hand moved to her bottom lip and started fiddling.

  What to do?

  6

  Francis leaned idly against a rail. Midday approaching, he and Brie were wandering through New Harlem’s outskirts. They’d passed through a public garden, conversation awkward and stilted, and now had taken pause beside a small mounted telescope. Brie had dropped in a coin and was ogling the view of New Harlem’s central island, stooped halfway over and cooing to herself as she swung the scope about.

  Francis glanced back, toward it. He frowned. Buildings and walkways and gardens. Surely it wasn’t that interesting.

  He suppressed a sigh and folded his arms. Maybe he could convince Brie to swing back by the marketplace. The fudge vendor was probably there. That would be nice.

  “Oh!” Brie straightened. She looked wide-eyed at Francis for a second, then laughed. “I ran out of time. I’m sorry.” She started rooting in her pockets. “Did you want a look? I’ve got some more money …”

  “It’s okay,” Francis said. “Can see it pretty well from here.”

  “Ooh, but it’s so pretty. And all the people! Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks, though.”

  Her fingers stopped rooting. She looked almost disappointed, but nodded and pulled a watery smile. “So, what shall we—”

  “Hey, guys.”

  Their heads whipped around. Mikhail and Natasha had materialised from the ether. Natasha held an ice cream cone that was melting quickly under the summer sun. A half-eaten flake of chocolate poked up—until Mikhail plucked it out and ate it.

  “Hey!” Natasha protested. “You’ve had yours.”

  “Ssh.” Mikhail grinned at Francis and Brie. “Enjoying the day?”

  “It’s all right,” Francis said, infusing his voice with as much false cheer as he could.